To the little one I lost

I loved you when you were only a clump of cells. When she told me about you, I couldn’t help but feel excited. I knew your chances were slim, but I hoped for you. I couldn’t push her when she made her decision. It wasn’t my choice to make. But I want you to know I tried to save you.

You were never just a foetus to me. You were never an accident or a problem to be solved. You were a beautiful creation, with a soul and a spirit and an energy of your own. While you were alive, I hugged her so tight because I wanted to feel you there in her belly. When I held her close, I could feel your tiny presence and I knew I was holding you too.

It breaks my heart that I never got to really hold you, smell your baby hair and kiss your little hands. I wanted so badly to meet you and to welcome you into this world. You deserved that. And although I knew none of it would ever happen, I was still excited because there was a chance – a very small chance I might see your first smiles, your first steps, your first day at school.

I wish you could have known my love. I would have loved you so deeply. I know if I’d got the chance, I would have done everything I could to keep you safe and help guide you through this life. Because you had a life ahead of you then. We would have played together. We would’ve had amazing adventures; exploring the world together and being out in nature. Feeling the sun on our faces and the mud under our feet. I would’ve loved the chance to read to you and cuddle you up when you were tired or sick.

It makes me angry and so sad that your life was taken before it could begin. To me, you were already a whole little human. I still imagine how beautiful you were even at that early stage. I picture your perfectly formed toes, your eyelashes, your tiny fingernails. I know you had a beating heart that wanted to live.

I know your brain was already advanced enough to feel pain. It makes me full of such a deep sadness to think that you might have suffered before the end. I’m so sorry it had to happen that way. It makes me feel desperate when I think of how much it might have hurt you. You were innocent. Your pure little soul deserved laughter and love and light – not the horror you were given.

I am so sorry I couldn’t save you. I will forever regret it. And I’m sorry you didn’t ever have a chance to see the beauty of this world. I am sorry I never got to look at your face and tell you, so you really felt it, that I adored you.

I will always wonder who you might have been and what you might have done if you’d been given the chance. And I want you to know that I won’t forget you. Even though I never got to meet you, you were a real person to me. You were a part of my family and my future and I didn’t want to lose you. I will never forget all you were and all you might have been. And I will always love you.

AND … this is a concept I’d like to share with you. It applies to YOU. Perhaps you’ve already heard of it. It’s called “disenfranchised grief”. This applies to you because you’re grieving the loss of your innocence, your childhood, perhaps your virginity and so, so much more … due to your incestual rapings and the need to express yourself you may come across people with whom you can’t share this part of your life, your grieving … it makes some people “uncomfortable” and so you have to close yourself off.

Thank you for sharing those links. I had never heard the term disenfranchised grief before, but I can definitely identify with it – like you say, on a number of levels.
The writing is actually about the loss of my sister’s baby. She had a termination about two years ago and I’ve only just started feeling like I have a right to grieve. And it brings up a lot for me about my own situation. Being in a same-sex marriage means I will never have a baby that is biologically both mine and my wife’s. While it doesn’t mean we can’t have children, it does make me sad that we can’t create one together. Hugs to you too, Laura

I can imagine you trying to open up to your sister, mother and/or father (pedobro doesn’t count) and they just don’t want to talk about your experience … THAT’S your disenfranchised grief right there in action (or no action)!

I hear ya on the no kid front and I hope I’m not highjacking your blog and over -linking you today, but I have ANOTHER link for you (hope I haven’t sent it before … my memory can fail me sometimes!).